


Deliverance

by oceansinmychest



Series: Notary [1]
Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Continuation, Dirty Talk, Edging, F/F, Light Sadism, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 03, Sequel to Notary, Smut, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 07:02:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15309993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: With the tape recorder as blackmail, Joan invites Vera into her office.





	Deliverance

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Notary](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14910231) by [oceansinmychest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest). 



> For my sweet girl. Thanks for being my muse and inspiring me. Enjoy. xx ;)
> 
> And here I am... Continuing yet another one shot as a second one shot. Oh, well.

In the desolate hallway, two ships pass in the night. Governor Ferguson doesn’t break her stride, broad shoulders stiff and remarkably even, on the way to her wolfish den. Her voice carries like a sonorous lullaby, low and alluring. The Deputy stops dead in her tracks. Vasilisa engages with the enigmatic firebird.

“Tomorrow evening. My office.”

Every statement from Joan is an order to be obeyed. The tips of her ears redden. She’ll come and she’ll _cum_.

Of a yielding nature, she was corruptible, if not malleable. Vera Bennett bent to her will. A knock signifies that manners and protocol don’t evade her. Despite her penchant for snooping, Vera _trusts_ Joan. On the way inside, she nearly trips over her own two feet. Her trembling refuses to subside.

Their weekly tête-à-tête escalates. This tryst would be an unforgettable one.

The office sleeps in luminous dusk. A green light reflects off the windowpane. With her face cast in a deep shadow, the Governor stands in front of her desk. Miss Ferguson steeples her fingers by her waist. The tape recorder hides behind her.

“Hello, Vera.”

The greeting seems – _feels_ – nonchalant.

“Guv’na.”

Vera manages a nervous, stiff smile.

“Have a seat.”

It’s an offer she won’t refuse.

When she walks, she trots. There’s an eagerness in her stride. She chooses the chair opposite of the one she covets.

“Ah, ah,” Joan tuts. “Not that one.”

Vera flashes a questioning look which the Governor answers with a cant of her head. She motions toward the throne. It may as well be gilded gold.

“Go on. You’ve earned iT,” she drawls.

Proven to be a most loyal subject, the marionette reacts with hesitance. Vera stalls when she rises to the occasion. Her hands remain on the arm rest. Caught by the fire in Joan’s eyes, Vera obeys. She moves to sit in her superior’s seat which still contains a trace of heat.

She swallows.

Joan smiles so sweetly, but such niceties are proven false.

The maestro orchestrates a bittersweet demise. Her palm engulfs the recorder while she meanders around the desk to face Vera. Distance ceases to exist. Fear creep in although Vera swallows her nerves. A ball of tangled vipers coils deep within her belly.

“What are we doing here, Guv’na?”

She feigns innocence. Fights the urge to flee.

Her thumb hits ‘play.’ The recording repeats itself. A cacophony of moans cause a scarlet blush to tint Vera’s cheeks. Quite visibly, she squirms. A familiar sensation travels past her belly and down to her legs. Something else throbs.

“Show me how.”

“I, um, I’m sorry?” She spits it out.

“Show me how you pleasured yourself. Need I replay the recording, Vera?” Joan raises her brows for emphasis. Her deputy understands crystal clear.

“Come now, Vera. Surely, you’ve touched yourself before.”

She baits her prey and speaks in a mundane tone, as if this were a discussion about the weather.

Vera gulps, her face aflame.

The recorder’s set down. Death’s pale, white hands seek refuge in her pockets. The desk lamp glares with its lonely light. From there, she procures a pair of leather gloves that glisten in the dark. With ease, they slip into place.

At the crossroads, Vera feels on the fence. She could flee or she could stay. Heaven knows she yearns for the latter. The rose flush of her innocence responds to the promise of indecent exposure. Instinctively, she picks at the buttons of her blazer, her blouse, and sneaks down to the utility belt which she timidly unhooks. Her uniform hangs open, splayed out like a skinned hide.

Swallowed by the sheer magnitude of the Governor’s presence, she succumbs. Vera finds herself comforted by that shadow devouring her whole. She goes through the motions of self-pleasure: an art form perfected underneath quilted covers and hissing sheets.

Encouraged by depravity, she engages. Shy fingers skirt across her chest and over the swell of her breast. Her nude bra remains in place. Her skirt falls off, a limp pool below her heels. Vera colors. The scarlet blush accentuates her honeyed skin. Light, grazing caresses speak to an underlying tentativeness. Through the thin fabric of her plain bikini briefs, she touches herself. The chair doesn’t recline; she learns to improvise. Hitches a leg over the side. The glaring discrepancy known as her inexperience only makes her even more ripe for the picking.

“You’re not bored, Vera. Are you?” Joan taunts in a singsong-like fashion. Uncharacteristic. A playful mirth speaks to a childhood lost to frost and militaristic ways.

Leather fingertips slither across her shuddering chest. It becomes an angry, red mark left behind.

“N-no,” she whispers in shaky reverence, as if she were a mouse in church.

With a whimper, she grinds against the heel of her palm. Panties slide down her toned thighs and shapely calves. Fingers slip past the damp curls wet from enthusiasm until she strokes her swollen, lower lips. Joan’s stare cuts sharper than a knife.

Vera’s heart cages itself in her throat. Revelation hits her in one fell swoop: it dawns on her that Joan _likes_ to watch.

The Governor sits on the edge of the desk until she leans forward. Exalted breath scorches Vera’s neck. Watching, always watching, a cobra and a mongoose dance.

Such a numinous attraction is difficult to break. No man has made her feel this way. Fletch’s desire for self-satisfaction was awkward, fumbling, and hurt too much. Though Joan hasn’t laid a finger on her, she wants her. Needs her.

She’s dripping, aching, and begging to be taken. Joan traces her collarbone, the bone so rigid and straining against thin skin. Unless she grows a harder shell, she **won’t** survive.

Her middle finger slide along her slit. Somehow, the action doesn’t make her feel dirty, but empowered. Her swollen clit demands to be stroked. Gently, she circles it.

A hungry God lurches forward. Wool scratches bare skin. The mentor’s hand joins her pupil’s; they interlace. It’s a means to controlling Judas’ actions before betrayal sets into place. The fingers of a pianist - or perhaps a cellist - stroke her. Shallowly, Joan’s fingertip trailed along her greedy cunt. Her tongue flicks at the corner of her mouth, resembling a ghostly kiss. Vera wets her mouth thereafter. Like vodka, the taste of Joan goes down slowly until it burns from within.

“Taste yourself. Get them weT.”

Joan runs her gloved finger along Vera’s eager chapped lips until her tongue flicks out, once uncertain and now unabashed. Maintaining eye contact, her tongue runs along the length of her fingers. There, she tastes leather, her saliva, and traces of herself. Suckling, she takes it to the knuckle.

Basking in this personal conquest, she rules like a tyrant swayed by her own coded utilitarianism. Joan treats her pawn with the malevolence of a hungry God. The steady pulse of her own arousal is restricted by her pressed trousers. How she aspires to pin her deputy against the desk to fuck her sense. Joan stiffens and represses the heat. A stoic to a fault, she remains in control.

Sinewy legs form a cage promising entrapment. At the offense, Joan recoils. Better to keep a manageable distance than get to close. She admonishes her deputy with a light smack to her curved ass. A squeak and a moan fuse together as one, unholy sound. The Governor shifts suddenly. Her palm cuts across Vera’s throat. She bruises easily. Whimpering is cut off by a gasp and the sharp buck of angular hips. She _loves_ inflicting pain. Pleasure shines within her razor eyes.

“Can I...?” Clearly embarrassed, she skirted around crude language. Joan would have found it amusing, but she despised the stall. “Can I slip a finger inside?”

“Not two?" Joan asks, bemused, before granting her worthy adversary permission. "Go on.”

Rocking back and forth, Vera impales herself. Quietude doesn’t suit her. She lets out a harsh cry, dazed and in the throes of self-pleasure. It's loud and it's messy. Gradually, she fucks herself to a rhythm she finds comfortable.

A smirk graces the Governor’s lips. How she yearns to fuck her deputy with something harder, but _patience_.

“My, my. Such a wanton thing.”

This is all a part of Vera’s conditioning. The degradation game begins. Hers is a dark victory.

“Take me, Joan,” Vera pants, her need making her desperate. Pressure builds from within, her legs a trembling mess. “Fuck me, Guv’na.” Depravity slips past her wagging tongue. My, how Vera continues to be full of surprises.

“You salacious, _filthy_ whore,” Joan whispers into the shell of her cherry red ear. “Beg.”

Those licentious words cause her stomach to flutter. A fresh surge of wetness follows. Clearly on edge, the poor lamb shakes. She throbs around her finger, her thumb moving in hectic circles.

“Please, please, please.” Incapable of coherent speech, she repeats herself, her head thrown back and her thighs quivering with the promise of her release. “I- I’m so close,” she pants, lashes flutter and mouth trembling.

Writhing in desperation, aching for that sweet release, Vera is unable to articulate how she nears completion, she gasps while her body shudders, threatening to commit sacrilege. Her bun unravels, frizzy curls melted against her forehead from the exertion and her sweat.

“No. Do not,” the Devil intervenes, her tone a cautionary tale. Her fingers squeezed Vera’s wrist and nearly grasped her tendons to elicit pain. Hovering from above, she reaps her soul. 

Punishment sets her back.

“Wh-What? No!” Vera exclaims, shocked by the denial of her sweet release.

All ministrations come to a halt. Her hand twitches, juxtaposed to the way her inner walls flutter. Whining, she looks up at her maker who keeps a death grip on her wrist.

“Perhaps you should have thought twice prior to coming in my office,” Joan answers smoothly.

She delivers the final blow.


End file.
